Solo Canoe and Portage Trip

“The Long Labrador Trail” books detail incredible survival experiences in Canada in the early 1900s. They explored old paddle routes and portage trails. Their tales resulted in starvation, death, and success. I devoured these compelling short books in one week.

After reading these adventures, I knew I could paddle a four-hour canoe and portage trip near home in downeast Maine. For years, I admired this seemingly simple loop. I’ve hiked to the launch about 10 times, and I have driven by the takeout for decades. But the waters in between were a mystery. Of course, I studied satellite and topographic maps. A friend floated the stream in an inner tube years ago. I considered myself reasonably informed.

I anxiously speeded between small mountains and pretty ponds to the parking area. I walked a cart and canoe almost a mile downhill towards the launch. Here, the east end of Spring River Lake became Tunk Stream. A sprawling campsite loosely guarded the rocky shoreline from above.

I nervously launched my canoe at the lake’s outlet, not knowing what to expect. I skirted over a log crossing the stream. The waters darted left and right between mossy green banks. I casually navigated these turns. And then sounds of a larger drop stirred me. I pulled over, inspected the rapid, and walked my canoe down through a tough piece. I re-entered the boat and ran the lower drops. The action was tight. My canoe bounced off several rocks in the narrow waterways. But I enjoyed the decision making, steering, and even the blunders.

I finished the rapid and dropped into a pool. My hands shook as I snapped a few photos. Beautiful chanterelle mushrooms perched along the mossy shore.

I ran into at least 4 of these rapids. Each time, I avoided a scary upper section by walking the canoe along the shore. Sometimes, I waded, occasionally chest high. Larger cliffs shrouded the stream, darkened the waters, and heightened the experience.

Eventually, the stream petered out. It widened and pulsed loosely through the wilderness. Wild, remote, and enchanting green lands lay to the north. An east-west road ran bordered to the south, providing an emergency exit if needed. Paddling along the stream seemed like a better option.

After an interesting and rocky rapid, the stream settled. Intermittent traffic stirred in the distance. Civilization, I grumbled. I paddled to the shore and hauled the boat up a steep bank to the road. Then I walked the canoe and cart west to my car. I bravely listened for traffic, dodged their threats, and proudly returned to my car 2.2 miles and an hour later. A dirt road simplified the last mile of the portage.

My only regret, aside from delaying the trip for years, was not having good walking shoes for 3 miles. My water shoes, which famously drain through the soles, also caused my feet to bleed after miles of hiking.

“The Long Labrador Trail” books convinced me that ANY of my canoe-trip imaginations are possible. These “dreams” are admirable achievements at the time… and enjoyable to reflect upon for years to come.

Another spring canoe trip

Every winter, I study maps and guidebooks to figure out new canoe trips for the crew. We typically plan for 2 nights camping, 3 days paddling… a max of 30 miles. I pester Maine guides, paddling colleagues, and scour numerous online resources for information. I create maps and proposals for trips that may never happen. Yet I continue.

After much consideration in early 2023, I emailed an earnest, yet half-baked, idea to the canoe crew. I proposed the alluring Mattawamkeag River trip. I imagined us paddling the middle section of the river, from Haynesville to the Wilderness Campground. My friend Chris figured out the trip ran 40 total miles, which was at least 10 miles too many. The trip was impossible for a crew that breaks camp at 9am.

The Mattawamkeag River perplexed me. Campsites, paddling distances, launches, and takeout possibilities did not fit into a 2-night trip. I could make it work if we had 3 or 4 nights, but people have to work.

I proposed the Baskahegan Stream trip as an alternative. I’ve researched the trip off and on for 11 years. I detailed a launch and takeout point. Chris determined this new trip was also 40 miles, just like the Mattawamkeag. Funny! I moved the takeout 10 miles further upstream and he accepted.

Each adventure involves hundreds of texts and emails. Plus, I like to stir the pot. The anticipation and communication is so much fun and consumes more time than the actual trip, sadly. But we love it. People jockey for position to make plans and decisions. At times, phone calls resolve differences, make amends, and clarify the direction.

After months of online mayhem with the crew, my dad and I met in the real world, namely Danforth. Dad offered to assist with the vehicle shuttle. We enjoyed catching up and admiring the small downtown. A moose spine casually rested in the parking area. Everything was normal.

Soon, the southern New England crew arrived. We exchanged hugs and handshakes, and scoured a local convenience store for worms. Everyone was excited to travel new waters. We called ourselves the “Baskahooligans”. Or at least I did.

One local guy befriended our group and at great length shared encouraging fishing and paddling reports. Later, we parted ways with our new friend and drove south along route 1 and then west onto route 6. We passed the road (heading south) connecting to Pleasant Lake, where a few years ago we launched and paddled into West Grand. Instead, we turned right (north) onto the White Farm Road and parked where a small bridge crossed the Baskahegan Stream.

An interesting set of rapids above the bridge caught Sean’s eye. Alas, we launched below them. In my tandem Blue Hole 17A canoe, we carried 15 pieces of firewood and 4 gallons of water, to my partner’s dismay, plus numerous dry bags and a large cooler. In the other canoe, an Old Town Tripper, Chris and Sean teamed up for the first time in a decade.

The small stream offered some modest action and then petered out into dead water. We snacked at the first site as rain increased. My rain jacket hid at the bottom of a pack, seeming inaccessible. I was cold and wet. We continued downstream for miles. We saw many ducks, Canada geese, turtles, and roughly 30 beaver lodges.

Sean and Chris caught many smallmouth bass and pickerel. They typically fished at the bottom of a small set of rapids. In one spot, they caught fish with every cast. They estimated about 50 fish on the first day and 80 overall.  

The stream opened up into Baskahegan Lake and we angled towards Round Island. At times, I did not paddle and just steered the canoe from the stern. Meanwhile my partner, Mike, paddled his ass off in the bow. I considered the move necessary to steer the boat and maybe rest a bit. My friends later teased me around the campfire about it.

The lake has at least 4 campsites, including another island for camping. Our awesome site offered 2 outhouses and plenty of open space for tents. The dry wood, which my partner lamented about carrying, helped us get a fire going on a wet day. Chris set up his dreamy tarp contraption.

Mike cooked chili. Sean and Chris talked about the afterlife as I retired early. Sean remarked that I would have loved the conversation. We paddled about 11 miles from 11:45am to 4:30pm.

Sean cooked corn pancakes and bacon the next morning. We packed our gear and left around 930am. At the northwest end of the lake, an old dam marked the outlet. Sean and Chris fished here for a while and caught a number of fish. We exited downstream. The stream had a number of small class 1 rapids that required some casual navigation. 

We found the remains of an old camp and water well on river right. I love seeing artifacts of earlier times.

At our second campsite, Sean cooked tenderloin, steaks, mashed potatoes, green beans, and pineapple upside down cake. We enjoyed time around the campfire. As darkness approached, Chris decided to fish. Somehow, he buried a treble hook into his index finger. He ripped out the hook and bandaged the wound.  

The next morning, I cooked my version of the “heart-attack breakfast”, in homage to JT’s meals on past trips. The breakfast featured stir-fried potatoes, bell peppers, garlic, onion, mushrooms, scrambled eggs, sausage, and bacon. We assembled our gear into our canoes. We followed the western shoreline to the boat launch, which is a 5-minute walk from where we left our vehicles at the town office. We could have paddled beyond a roped off area of the flowage and shortened the walk. Or parking at the landing might have been an option. 

Overall, the trip was about 28 miles. The rapids were not exciting or challenging, but the area was remote and offered great fishing. The trip cannot be run in the fall, as the water levels will be too low. The trip could be extended downstream to connect with the Mattawamkeag. Cool guys have paddled from the West Grand Lake area north to Pleasant Lake before joining up with the Baskahegan. Regardless, the Baskahegan Stream trip is certainly worth the trip.

Her First Time in Maine

A lady contacted me somewhat unexpectedly to rent my cabin. Typically midweek in June is empty. She drove about 10 hours with her dog. She seemed a bit exasperated by the journey. I know the feeling. 

I showed off the rustic cabin to her. Explained how neighbors were about a mile away, across the water. She asked about bears and moose. I told her about myself meeting a bear on the trail. While I’ve seen 15 moose over the years at the cabin, they are not as common. But they could be more dangerous. Oh, and there might be an animal living underneath the cabin. Maybe a raccoon.

Darkness approached and I explained that I was an hour away if anything should happen. Her companion was a tough-looking dog of 7 years, skinny legs but muscular with a broad chest. The situation seemed under control. If I was her, I would have been in heaven for a few days. 

The next morning, she emailed me and said she left after two hours and stayed in a hotel. She was not ready to spend time alone there. Maybe she would return with a friend. If this was a Maine Guide test for me, I failed. I did not read the situation correctly. The moose and bear stories were a bit much. 

A fair number of guests may leave a day early because of weather or desire to shower. But this woman wins the prize of the shortest stay.

Unexplored Canoe Route to the Ocean

I’ve paddled, fished, and hiked a few sections of Card Mill Stream. These trout friendly waters eventually lead to the ocean. I knew of one bad drop near the finish. But many unexplored areas made me wonder. I studied satellite and USGS maps. I could see open and calm waters. However, one section appeared to be small and thick with trees. Curiosity captured me and I decided to paddle it one Friday.

I arrived boldly at the launch. A small family assembled gear and prepared to fish the stream. I told a kid that I am paddling to the ocean. He shrugged off my remark and started fishing. I excitedly gathered my gear and launched the canoe. The current whisked my canoe downstream. 

The first few drops were navigable. And then waves appeared. I landed ashore and scouted ahead. Large boulders, sharp turns, and narrow channels made this impossible. I held the canoe by hand and walked down the rapid. Another set of unpassable rapids appeared. I waded through waist-deep waters past the obstacle. I paddled a short stretch and found another impasse. These rapids were too narrow and fierce to walk the canoe down the stream.

Sadly, I dragged the canoe through the crowded woods. I squeezed my canoe between trees a few times. I fought my way over a small hill. I reached a solid wall of balsam fir, changed direction, and found a narrow opening back to the stream. 

I walked the canoe down another set of rapids. As I waded, my feet worked their way around submerged boulders. From behind me, a basketball-sized boulder rolled downstream into my legs. I stepped out of its way as it tumbled through. 

A wetsuit top and bottom kept me comfortable. My river shoes drained the water but my feet were cold. Neoprene shoes are on my list.

I passed a few remote camps along the rocky stream’s edge. Upon seeing one, I considered giving up and begging for a ride home. I continued downstream instead. 

While wading down one rapid, the canoe’s bow caught water and started to fill. The canoe could be lost downstream. I fought the boat out of the moving water. Not sure how I did it. I located the scoop and shoveled water out of the canoe while standing in the rapid. With enough water removed, I floated the canoe to shore and emptied the boat.

I waded through many rapids with my canoe. Few sections could be paddled. Large boulders and narrow, rocky drops were impossible. Yet, I had to get downstream to the car.   

The stream finally reached a large calm section. I thankfully relaxed in my canoe and looked back at the last rapid. A series of three huge drops shadowed my view like a small mountain. No canoe could have run it. 

Small beaver dams and short drops separated the calm waters. I enjoyed paddling and following the stream banks. I lined over another rapid into the last stretch of peaceful waters. 

A considerable drop appeared and began the last quarter mile to the ocean. I exited to the right shore, walked the canoe downstream for a bit, crossed a scary deep rapid, and then dragged my canoe up a steep embankment to a road. I shouldered the 60lb canoe and walked a peaceful 10 minutes to my car. 

I considered myself a badass. I survived a crazy adventure. I smirked and wondered if anyone else has paddled Card Mill Stream. I emailed a local Maine Guide contact. Oh yeah, he canoed that one.

Spooked on the Trail

In early September, I plan to climb the highest mountain in Maine for approximately the 25th time. Trip involves 4000 feet in elevation gain, 10 miles, and 10 hours. In anticipation of this event, I have been training on small mountains close to home.

Tunk Mountain is 1150 feet tall, involves 800 feet in elevation gain, and is located 10 minutes from home. My favorite trail at this point is a lesser-used trail that scales the southwest corner of the mountain. Ten years ago, I used to be able to drive my jeep a few miles in before hiking. Now, due to deteriorated road conditions, I park just seconds away from a paved road and begin my walk where the Myrick Pond Road begins. The trip starts as a dirt road that gradually narrows over nearly 2 miles before it becomes a path.

On a Sunday afternoon, following a number of hours working for our small business, I hiked this favorite trail of mine. While I do see trucks on the Myrick Pond Road, I’ve never seen anyone where the road to Tunk splinters away from this main road in the 10 times I’ve been there.

As I walked along a road section, where trees on opposite sides touch together, a parked Toyota RAV4 emerge into my view. I leashed my dog immediately. I assumed they were hikers. As I passed the vehicle, my senses turned defensive. I noticed two people inside. Feeling spooked, I continued a bit briskly until out of their sight.

As my mind returned to the joys of hiking, I noticed a series of ledges running parallel to the trail, about 100 feet away. My dog walked along the bottom of these ledges last weekend. I had to check them out today. I found a short trail that follows the top of these cliffs and offers a somewhat scary place to enjoy views of distant lands. The ledges fall at least 60 feet at a nearly vertical angle. After a moment of admiration and steady feet, I followed the trail quickly down these ledges to normal ground level. I considered continuing on the main trail that goes higher, reaches a modest tableland, and then the peak. Alas, I decided to turn around and head home.

On the way down, I considered the mystery men in the RAV4. I didn’t want to see them again. I left the trail above their vehicle and angled north through the woods towards another road. My dog did not want to go this way. She needed some encouragement.

The land dropped consistently lower, with rocks and small boulders breaking up the hardwood forest. Soon, the land leveled and became a the dry edge of a swamp with waist-high ferns and downed trees. I knew there was a road south and north of me. But, I felt a bit lost. I pressed further and looked for signs of encouragement. Eventually, I found a familiar place, the road I wanted to see, just on the other side of a small swamp. I breathed a sigh of relief and continued my march back to the car.

Halloween Storm 2017 at the Cabin

On a dark October night, I attended a local play at an ocean-side grange hall. I happened to say hello to the previous owners of the cabin. I am estranged at this point, the previous owners and I, after I forgot about a dinner event a few years ago. They felt I humiliated them, and they decided that was enough of me.

The next day, coincidentally, New England received a strong storm approaching hurricane levels. Heavy winds and rains caused much havoc. I drove to work that morning and enjoyed an adventurous drive home due to road closures and chaos. The normal commute is 40 minutes, but it turned into a 4-hour saga. Many large trees snapped in the fierce winds. Nearly every side road I imagined being a successful exit, always turned into a dead end created by downed trees. When people and traffic appeared to reach a melt-down point, a primary road reopened and cars finally started moving.

A few days passed, everything settled, and power returned. I assumed everything was fine. People always worry about those huge trees next to their buildings. Nothing ever happens. I waited until the following weekend to check it out.

While driving to the cabin, I picked up numerous branches along the dirt road and walking trail. At one point, I paused and thought, am I arranging the deck chairs on the Titanic?

As I approached my favorite location on the planet, the building emerged, shrouded in an amorphous blur of green leaves, branches, and trees. My eyes struggled to focus and figure out what I saw seeing.

Prior to this storm, a large hemlock tree perched about 10 feet from the cabin on the shoreline, likely for decades. On Sunday, this tree succumbed to the high winds and fell against the cabin roof, bringing down 15 other smaller trees with it. This main tree, over 30″ in diameter and over 60 feet tall,  fell and stretched from the southeast to northwest corner of the building. The beast extended 30 feet past the end of the building, with the tip about 30 feet off the ground.

Another tree, about 16″ in diameter and which normally stood between the cabin and the shore, snapped off about 7 feet off the ground. It laid parallel to the lake and flat on the ground. Many other trees were strewn about the peninsula, contributing in smaller ways to the storm’s ultimate chaos.

The cabin building appeared to the fine, although smothered by trees and creating psychological dismay at this time. One skylight bounced off the building from the impact. The large hemlock grazed the stove pipe’s flue cap, tipping it like a cowboy’s hat. The tree also pierced the roof structure in 3 places. Only one was large and created a 15″ x 10″ hole in the sheathing.

After surveying the situation, I chainsawed the lower branches of the 60′ hemlock and worked my way up the tree. Eventually I cleared all the small trees pressed against the roof by the large hemlock. I cleared the roof, aside from the big tree laying corner to corner. I schooched my way up higher and chainsawed branches. At one point, I had a running chainsaw and a leg saddling either side of the tree. I shuddered at the 25-foot drop to the ground. It was time to call a professional. I wrapped up my day and headed home. I knew who to call. For a reasonable amount of money, my cool contractor buddy, who can kick anyone’s ass, removed the tree. I imagined he and his crew carried in a ladder and multiple chainsaws. He mentioned having other customers with similar situations resulting from the big storm.

I credit the building’s survival to having support beams inside and near the middle of the building. If these beams were not in place, the cabin would have been crushed. If the tree hit the metal stove pipe straight on, the results might have included the pipe getting pushed through the floor. This storm was a game of inches, and somehow I won.

Alas, I am a lucky man. I dodged the proverbial bullet once again. But I also wondered about seeing the previous cabin owners just prior to the event. Did the meeting present a test of my fortitude and luck? I survived. The cabin survived. Life is perhaps a series of interesting and unconnected coincidences that have nothing to do with each other. Perhaps I desire to derive meaning from nonsense and luck. As a writer an inspector of life, I have to explore these situations and approach the answers.

Webster Stream Canoe Trip

After a winter and spring of debate, my friend Mike decided the group should canoe Webster Stream. I tried to sabotage the trip a few times. I encouraged two of the guys to side with me and aim for the East Branch, a truly remarkable trip to be paddled before we are too old to be adventurers. This misdirection ended badly and without victory. And the week before the trip, I alerted the crew of high waters and threat of snow. If we had paddled that weekend, we would have encountered dangerously high water, but our weekend’s water was perfect.

To start the trip, I drove 2 hours north and visited a childhood friend in Millinocket on Thursday night. We recapped a bunch of stories from when we were kids and more recent years. We could have talked all night and a few consecutive days, reliving the old days. I have known Ed since I was 6 years old.

Sometime after midnight, I remember waking up every hour to see the empty sky pressing its waking energy into my consciousness. A curtainless window framed the outside world, a striking portal to an early sun illuminating space and time. I couldn’t wait to see the guys and go paddling. A lack of sleep and excessive excitement exaggerated the experience.

I gathered most of my things and headed out to meet the crew at their motel. Two trucks with four canoes parked next to each other. I knew this was the gang. I sneaked up on my friend Chris and surprised him. Slowly, the other guys appeared. I hugged most of them. A few of us are on “hand-shaking” terms, but we should be huggers after all these years.

We dropped my vehicle at the last store on the drive to Baxter State Park. I loaded my gear into one truck and we drove towards the park. We should have exited to the Golden Road earlier, but ended up traveling a rough old road that used to be the primary connection from the park to Abol Bridge. My old memories of the area proved faulty. We visited Churchill Dam, but the water was low and not super interesting. We poked about to find the Crib Works but didn’t take the time to find it.

We headed north. We paid our entrance fees and drove to the launch. Our truck, leading the excursion, saw a bear scramble off the road in the distance. Every trip starts with one cool animal sighting. We should have explored the local museum, where logging artifacts are on display. My grandfather rescued many of them from the park, and when they didn’t want them, they ended up here. I believe one of my grandfather’s paintings of log driving is there.

After securing gear into our canoes and determining canoe partners, we set off. We started paddling in Telos Lake (pronounced “tee-loss”). Katahdin, North Brother, and South Brother mountains loomed in the distance. Large patches of snow dotted their mountaintops.

I loved seeing this new perspective of the park, especially after having explored every other vantage point for the past 40 years. This trip ran from west to east across the northern section of the park. Remote trails provide access to this area, but I had never traveled them in my years of exploring Baxter.

After crossing Telos Lake, we portaged around an interesting dam and paddled a short section of stream into Webster Lake, a water body inaccessible to vehicles. We paddled east across this lake and camped on the shore, where Webster Stream started.

We enjoyed a nice meal, campfire, and tent site for the evening. The next morning, a float plane dropped off a fishing guide and client at our campsite. They had a fun day of fishing ahead of them. The guide tried to scare us. He mentioned that world-class canoeists got their asses kicked by the whitewater downstream from our campsite. While he was right to point out turbulent waters downstream, we were an experienced team.

Paddling about 10 miles took us an entire day. Essentially, all of it was whitewater. I have never paddled so many consecutive stretches of rapids on any prior trip. We ran most of the rapids. Most of us portaged around one drop, called Indian Carry, but one tandem boat ran it clean. Whenever an interesting section appeared, we pulled off to shore and scouted the rapids. Partners pointed out boulders to miss, lines to run, and waves to navigate.

For the most part, we ran the rapids quite well. I paddled in a whitewater boat, belonging to my partner John. The boat rode high in the rapids, and glanced lightly off the turbulent waters. Normally, I am used to taking waves while paddling in the bow (front of the vessel). But this Blue Hole boat made me look like an expert.

One group brushed up against a boulder and nearly pinned the boat. My friend just purchased a used Old Town Tripper, and he mentioned the boat groaned with force from the water trying to fold the canoe.

Everyone portaged around Grand Pitch, a narrow, steep, class V drop in the stream. The carry was a bit arduous, but all adventures require suffering.

Below the pitch, we enjoyed a few more drops before the water settled into Grand Lake Matagamon. The magical waters of the East Branch of the Penobscot joined Webster Stream at this point. We exited the stream at 6pm, and I immediately started making a fire as it was my night to cook. Eventually, the coals were ready, and I cooked about 16 chicken thighs. I separated the chicken and heated it along with potatoes, tomatoes, and onions. I served this chicken curry over freshly cooked basmati rice as darkness encroached.

The next morning, we paddled into the expanse of Grand Lake Matagamon. Island after island dotted the still and pristine waters. Sean caught a nice trout here. Horse Mountain and its rocky cliffs rose out of the land to the southwest.

After lunching on an island campsite, John (my partner) and I paddled and met up with the crew. We paddled on our own for much of the day. At the takeout, docks lined either side of the river above the dam. My partner decided to try the eastern one. We found a walkway lined with ropes as hand railings. We walked 10 minutes along this path, even with some gear, until we saw “no trespassing signs” and heard our crew holler from the other shore. We packed up our gear and began the trip south. I parted ways in Millinocket, exchanged a few hugs, and headed home.

Bear Stories

Approximately 30,000 bears live in Maine. Downeast Maine, where I reside, is a popular area for these animals. Bears enjoy forested areas and sparse human population.

While most people are scared of bears, there is typically nothing to worry about. Nearly every encounter with a bear is brief and memorable. Bears are not interested in confronting humans. To reiterate this point and share a few stories, this post summarizes a few of my interesting events with bears.

My most interesting bear story involves visiting my cabin in downeast Maine in early May 2017. The road was too soft to drive. I was itching to get into the cabin and do some work before a canoe trip with the fellas. So, I parked my car further up the road than normal and started walking in. I quietly came around a corner and looked to see a 300 lb black bear walking towards me. We were about 40 feet apart. His fat and muscles jiggled and oscillated with each step. The bear and I stopped, looked at each other face to face, and froze. It probably took seconds to materialize. I took one step back and the bear turned into the woods. I paused and considered my next move. How badly did I need to go the cabin? I only planned to do some cleaning. I stood motionless for a few minutes. I stepped forward a few paces, paused, and then retreated back to my car. Often, my canoe trips start with an interesting animal sighting. I described the stories to the guys before we spent the next 3 days paddling canoes and camping.

Here’s another bear story mixed in with adventure. We’ve paddled the Moose River trip twice. The first time we paddled it, October snow squalls started as we drove to the launch. Fierce westerly winds swept across the lake, creating steady and strong waves we had to navigate. Somehow we made it, and the rest of the trip was fine. The next time we paddled this trip, the first part was easy. No waves. But as we tried to wrap things up on the last day, the big lake was rolling like an ocean with huge waves from high winds. Boats disappeared from view as they dipped into the low point between wave crests. We pulled off onto an island briefly and one guy sent a text to his wife saying he might not get home tonight. The text failed to send. We returned to our boats and followed the shorelines to avoid dangerous waters. I remember looking over my shoulder and seeing a bear on a beach. I hollered to my friends and gestured towards the bear. The howling winds silenced my words and only a few people noticed. I watched the bear for a while, between frantic paddling to keep the boat moving just slightly ahead and closer to the takeout. We managed to pull off the lake around 6pm. I had cabin renters that night, and I didn’t meet them until 11pm. I got home around 2pm that morning. The crew vowed to never again paddle the Moose River trip.

But, bears are everywhere in Maine. I saw a video this June of a bear on top of Maine’s highest mountain. I have seen a bear on the road less than a mile from my house. My buddies have had bears raid their bird feeder in the back yard. I remember watching a bear cub in a tree for as long as we wanted, while dropping a vehicle for the West Branch of the Penobscot River canoe trip. When I was young, I remember visiting a dump outside of Baxter State Park, where bears roamed around the vehicles and ate trash. I have a fuzzy memory of a bear running past me in the woods of my childhood home. A Baxter State Park ranger (my grandfather’s assistant) was once treed by a bear and had to shoot the animal.

I typically see a bear about twice a year. These moments are always a special encounter. The thought of seeing a 200-300lb animal amble about keeps my eyes open and attention focused while driving and exploring rural Maine.

25 miles of the Appalachian Trail in Central Maine

Our 2017 fall trip across three 4,000′ mountains was so much fun. We had to hike and camp again. When planning our new adventure, I scanned the peaks to the south of our prior journey. The the proposed trip spanned at least four 4000′ peaks and 30 miles of the Appalachian Trail (AT). We discussed running this trip or a shorter versions of it, but mountain snows and cold temperatures changed our minds.

John T suggested another AT trip, involving 25 miles, 2 leantos, just one mountain, and camping next to a lake. We dropped a vehicle at Lake Moxie, our finish, and brought everyone and their gear east to Monson. I gave my friends a tour and brief town history as we breezed past a handful of old and new buildings. Excitement boiled over as we packed our gear and finally hit the trail.

After passing through mostly level terrain, the trail traveled up and down along shoulders of small mountains. Soon we approached the East Branch of the Piscataquis River. Further downstream, this river passed through my home town. Here, along our trail, interesting wooden canyons ran along its shores. Land tumbled down to the waters below. Dark pools emptied into white waterfalls cupped by boulders and small cliffs.

By noon the second day, we forded two small streams before encountering a larger crossing with a rope stretched over it. I removed my hiking boots and tossed one across. My throw was horrible, as I tried to sling it by the laces. The boot landed in the middle of the stream. We had another 18 miles to go! I raced down the shoreline as my boot bobbed up and down like a small vessel. I seized a tree branch and steered the boot to shore. Amazingly, my boot was dry. I threw it safely across the stream and waded the waters wearing my crocs and a little bit of shame.

After witnessing this incident, my friend Sean believe he had a better way to cross the stream. He eyeballed the rope stretching across the cold October waters. Sean clamped his hands and feet around the rope and inched towards the other shore. As he reached the middle, the rope stretched lower and lower. Soon his backpacked brushed the water surface. Realizing he would never make it, he retreated. As he neared the shore, Sean lost his grip on the rope and bounced off a boulder and into the water. He escaped to dry land within moments, changed into dry clothes, and later waded across.

John T, on the other hand, crossed the stream in style. He stripped down to his tidy whities and did not have a mishap. We joked about another friend, Mike E, who would have forded the waters naked in front of everyone.

From here, the trail leveled out as we traveled what must be wet walking in the spring. Trail builders arranged many large stones to keep the hiker’s feet above the ground. We camped at a leanto near Bald Mountain Pond, where we met our first thru hiker, Triple Zero. I’m guessing his name is spelled that way. He was originally born in Malaysia but lived in Georgia most recently, and now planned to finish the trail before winter makes the trip impossible. He mentioned there was one guy behind him. I shuddered a bit thinking of the cold nights, snowy trails and icy peaks that lay ahead.

The next morning, we encountered our first and only mountain, Bald Mountain. Before reaching the summit, we met another thru hiker who had little time to talk. We told him about Triple Zero, and he responded with “I’ll catch him”, all with a wild look of aggression and no fear on his face. He said there were a few behind him.

The barren Bald Mountain summit showed signs of a fire a while ago that cleared many trees. Only their white stumps remained. The wind blew strong and cold, keeping us from admiring the views of Sugarloaf, Bigelow, and nearby mountains. Pictures are never the same as staring into a series of peaks.

We dropped down the west side and encountered numerous interesting granite overhangs and crevices, an area to explore off trail in the future. We stopped and talked with a local guy and third hiker as we descended Bald. He obviously hiked western Maine and the White Mountains extensively. Lucky man.

The trail eventually flattened out and returned us to a vehicle. We took photos, saddled gear into the vehicle, exchanged man hugs, and began the journey home.

Canoe Trip Report May 2017

We paddle every spring and fall. Some guys have obligations and cannot enjoy camping and whitewater canoeing. A week-long trip excludes most guys. But the usual two-night, three-day trip is the norm and possible for many of our group of 14. After completing a tame yet fun overnight trip in October 2016, I yearned for an ambitious, multi-day adventure. I scoured maps, blogs, and rivers looking for a new river to run. After much time, I found a river north of a 200,000+ acre state park. The area was destined to be remote, provide some whitewater, great cold water fishing, and sure adventure with over 30 miles of paddling.

A long and cold Maine winter raised hell with our firm trip date in early May. The weekend was not possible when winter lingered followed by heavy rains plagued northern Maine in April. The group dropped to plan B, the old reliable, the upper Machias. Many of us have paddled this one at least five times, if not more. As the group narrowed for the open weekend, we firmed our plans.

I left home early on Friday morning. I intended to hit the cabin for some light repairs before heading out with friends. I parked my car along the dirt road, gathered my gear, and hiked. Normally, my car would take me further along this road, but heavy spring rains required me to walk more than normal, rather than destroy the soft road addled by spring rains. I traveled quietly. Thoughts of whitewater canoeing adventures preoccupied my mind.

Suddenly, a large black bear entered my view. I stopped as I surveyed this dark creature, walking on all fours and yet standing 3 feet tall, roughly the size of an office desk. The creature sauntered a bit heavily, a large head and body interlocking and turning together with great force. The bear recognized me, right as I recognized he or she. I stopped, stumbled, and retreated a bit. The bear paused and then drifted into the woods like a shadow passing with the sun. I regained some bravery and held my ground. I contemplated advancing towards my goal of working at the cabin. Many minutes passed as I imagined the bear lingering near my passage. I retreated and returned to my car, having realized seemingly enough resistance for early in the day. What challenging river rapids were to come on this trip?

Ten or fifteen minutes later, I met my friends at a nearby diner. They arrived in a large 4-door, 4-wheel drive truck. I drove my large silver sedan with a trailer hauling a canoe. A good friend, Uncle Don, joined me as a passenger, and we traveled to the take out. I dropped my car and the five of us eventually found the launch site. We dropped gear and loaded boats. Soon we were starting the canoe trip.

Ten years ago was the last time we paddled the river, according to our photo records. The high water levels and distant memories made the rapids an adventure. I remember thinking the trip had just one set of tough rapids, but we encountered three good drops on our first day. My partner and I lined our boats over a twisting drop and a beaver dam on the first day. We ran a majority of the subsequent rapids. The other canoe and kayak somewhat easily passed these sections.

Our first night, we camped along an east-west sand beach. The clouds of black flies from earlier in the day no longer bothered us here. Our cook prepared a five-course meal with personalized menus. We enjoyed New Hampshire mushrooms, lobster chowder, mashed potatoes, corn bread, and garden asparagus. Our colorful tents lined the sandy shore.

The next morning, we awoke and paddled across the windy lake. We found the outlet, navigated small but interesting rapids connecting us to the next lake. We lashed our canoes together and formed a sail to carry us down the next waterway. I carried the mast like a guitar, one arm around the base and the other around the fretboard. We traveled about 5mph down the lake for almost 2 hours. We stopped at a large rock for lunch, remembered pauses here on previous trips, and muscled down the lake via the wind to our next beach campsite. Chicken and coconut rice dinner, along with nice company and a roaring fire, made for an enjoyable evening.

The next morning, we saddled our gear into the canoes. The lake narrowed into a small rapid, then deadwater, more rapids, and further deadwater. My canoe partner and I ran these sections well. Approaching a new set of rapids, I questioned whether this was the big rapid or not. Do we want to stop and scout? My buddy said no. We ran the rapid. We hit the first large drop and took on some water. Serious waves fiercely guarded the passage downstream. I hastily pivoted our boat around a white birch tree standing is a berzerk fashion upright in the water. We dropped down this next section, again taking on more water. The canoe floated a bit recklessly with too much water in the bottom. A large boulder approached us with much speed. Lacking control, we smashed against the boulder. The canoe bounced off the rock. I clamored for some unimportant gear, and the boat wavered weakly. My mistake. The canoe tipped precariously and took on tremendous amounts of water. We were done. The boat, borrowed from a colleague, spun around 180 degrees and caught volumes of water. We fought the canoe to shore, emptied the water, and eventually carried the canoe and gear to safer passage. The other canoe team in our group dumped in the same place, even after scouting the rapid for some time. The kayaker in our team paddled the section, but shook considerably after running the whitewater. No one remembered the falls ever being this big, but the heavy spring rains somewhat explained our situation.

After gathering our gear and boats, including one of our car keys in a bag washed on shore, we paddled through a few more rapids and calm lakes, and eventually found the reassuring site of my car and the takeout.

During this trip, we endured higher-than-expected rapids, ravenous blackflies and mosquitoes, plus a great time among friends. Sore muscles and sunburns were part of the deal. This same group has paddled spring and fall trips off and on for the past 20 years. A few bug bites and overturned boats were completely acceptable. After a handshakes and hugs, exchanged by men who haven’t showered for days, we agreed to paddle again this fall.

Definitely.